Anything At All
by MCVG
Summary: Jared/Kim. Read and review!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't think we even have to include these, but what the hell? I don't own it. **

**I wrote another story about Jared and Kim, but I just like this one so much more. Please read and tell me what you think! **

I find that if I concentrate on one thing and nothing else, everything else in the entire world ceases to exist.

A red stain on the carpet. Probably from Lila's experiment with her new nail polish, I decide. It was going to take me a long time to get that out. Unless it was bleached. But the carpet was off-white, and the bleach would probably take the color out of that spot. So bleach was out of the question. It probably needed a good scrubbing and some quality stain remover. Or maybe I'd just find a nice throw rug to put in that spot.

When I am thinking about this red stain, I can barely hear the yelling. I don't hear my father's fury and my mother's anguish. I can't even hear my sister's deep, unconscious breathing in the bed right beside mine. If I work hard enough, I don't even hear my tears.

It's not like I hadn't heard this before. But as far as family's go, mine's not exactly dysfunctional. Occasionally my dad will come home all riled up and take it out on my mother, loudly. It's not like he hits anyone. I'm pretty sure he doesn't even get up from the couch as he yells. It's just that when everything in your entire life is falling apart, it'd be nice to have the comfort of a safe-harbor at home. I have no such luxuries.

So for a while I just sit there on my bed, my knees pulled up to my chin, and cry. I don't think I'm even crying because of my parent's anymore. It's one of those things about me, the ones I can't change even if I really tried. Once the tears start, I can't stop, I just cry and cry and cry until there's no more tears inside of me. It's kind of nice sometimes.

"Kim, stop crying."

The funny part is no one's actually telling me to stop crying. You'd probably think I was a schizophrenic right about now, but I'm not. When I imagine someone telling me to do something, I do it. If I tell myself to do something, I don't. So I use my imagination, and I get things done.

_I can't stop crying. I don't want to, don't want to, don't make me…_

I stop crying.

I am nothing if not an obedient young woman.

And it's like magic, the way my tears stop coming full-force and I'm able to sit up in my bed and wipe my eyes off and then, just like that, I'm fine. No one will ever know that I was crying. They'll see me tomorrow, I'll smile at them, and they'll think, _Look at Kim, she's so happy and smart and everything's just so easy for her. _

And I'll let them think that, even though just once, I wish someone would see that I wasn't.

***

In the morning, things are great.

My mom makes pancakes while Dad reads the paper and hums quietly to himself. It's like, they think if they put on this show of how perfectly normal they are, they will be. If they don't talk about their problems, they don't have any problems.

I'm just like them.

"I want a puppy," my little sister Lila announces, in the pseudo-manner of eight-year-olds everywhere. She doesn't really want a puppy. In fact, if she had one, she'd probably neglect it so bad Animal Services would come for it. But she's eight and she's a girl, so she has to say things like this, because that's what eight-year-old girls do. They want puppies.

"You can't have a puppy, Lila," Mom says, all exasperated, like she's gone over this a million times, even though she hasn't.

"Why not?" Lila pouted.

"Puppies are a lot of responsibility. I don't think you're ready for that."

Which is a direct translation for, _I don't want to have to pick up your puppy's goddamn shit all over my house. _

"I can be responsible," countered Lila fervently. "I'll prove it to you. What if I pick up my room, help around the house, and don't fight with Amanda or Kimmie for three whole weeks? Then could I have a puppy?"

"How about you do all that, and then we'll see?" Mom suggests. She sets down a stack of the pancakes that I'm supposed to pretend to enjoy in front of me and glances at my dad, making sure he caught onto her impressive parenting skills.

"Okay!" Lila exclaims.

I'm not a morning person and my entire family knows it. No one speaks to me before noon unless they'd like to be yelled at. It's an unspoken rule that everyone keeps their distance and that's how I retain my sanity during these trying times.

"Kim, could you ride the bus in this week to school?" Amanda asks. I grunt in response. "I have to go in early for practice."

In the stereotypical synopsis of your average angsty teenager's family life, my older sister, Amanda, is perfect. When I say that she's perfect, I actually mean that she is _perfect_. She's so perfect that people think _I'm _practically perfect just because I share DNA with her. She's on the honor-roll and she's loved by everyone. She's in five out of eight clubs at our tiny school. She does charity work and cheerleading. She's pretty but not a slut, she has a boyfriend on the football team, friends in every clique available at La Push Rez High, and she's nice. Nice. Like, I'd even probably like her if she wasn't so perfect that it drove me insane every time I was around her.

If Amanda was troubled in any way, you would have the most amazing book plot _ever_.

I mutter something under my breath that even I can't understand, and Amanda takes it as a yes.

"Thanks," she says, injecting an amount of enthusiasm that only a truly happy person could muster at six in the morning.

I push away my pancakes because they're gross and I don't like them. When my mother asks why I haven't eaten, I tell her, "Because these are gross and I don't like them."

That's why I go to the school psychologist every Wednesday afternoon during free period. According to my mother, I have no censor on what I say. And if I talk about my problems, one will suddenly appear.

"Don't talk to your mother that way," Dad warns.

"Don't scream at her when you think everyone else is asleep," I reply.

Dad glares at me threateningly, Mom goes ashen, Amanda gasps a little, and Lila talks about how she'd like to get a Golden retriever if only they didn't get so big when they were older.

And I fight the urge to shout, "_Burn_!"

It's all very mature.

"I'm going to go get ready for school now."

It takes me about two minutes to do so. Some girls, I know, will spend hours putting on their makeup and fixing their hair and adjusting their clothes just right. I'm not one of them. The way I see it, I'm not pretty and I never will be. If I put on makeup, I'll be only slightly prettier, which still isn't pretty, so what's the point? So I go all-natural, which makes me a minority in high school and makes people think I'm "edgy."

La Push Reservation High is probably the only public school in the United States that has no dress code to speak of. It doesn't need one. In the Olympic Peninsula of Washington, if you wear spaghetti straps with widths of less than three fingers and shorts above your fingertips, you've probably never stepped inside a school building before, because you're retarded. If it's cold, which it practically always is, you're going to need warm clothes. And if it's not cold, it's going to rain. There's no room for slutty clothes in these conditions.

I'm glad that it doesn't have a dress code, though, because that means there is no uniform whatsoever. It would have been smarter of the administration to enforce some sort of rule, like brushing your hair or wearing nice shoes or something, but maybe they decided having nothing was better than half-assing it, because we are free to wear _whatever _we want. Technically, they couldn't get you into trouble for going to school naked. Just saying.

But I am one of those annoying people that is always, always, always cold. I'll have a sweatshirt in Florida in the summer, that's how cold my body temperature is. So I throw on a long-sleeved blue shirt, jeans, and my Yale sweatshirt. I have a Yale sweatshirt because that's where Amanda's going at the end of this year, and I wear it because it's amazingly warm.

"Kim, what you said down there…"

Amanda is leaning against the bathroom doorframe when I look up from brushing my teeth, effectively scaring the shit out of me.

"Holy crap, you scared the shit out of me," I say, but it sounds like "howwy cwap, euw scured da shif ow of me," because my mouth is still filled with toothpaste.

"What they do when we're supposed to be in bed isn't your business," she goes on like I hadn't spoken.

"I don't care," I tell her, wiping my mouth off.

"Couples fight," she says. She's trying to convince herself, not me, only I'm not sure she knows that.

"I know that."

"And it could be a lot worse, you know. Dad could be a drunk, or—or—"

"God. Fuck off, Amanda!"

It's like I slapped her across the face. I'd feel a little bad, except then she crosses her arms over her chest and replies, "You are acting like such a brat lately. I don't even know who the hell you are anymore."

"Yeah?" Suddenly, I'm overcome with this urge to make her cry. I just really, really want to see her crying, like I need to prove that she's not perfect and I'm not the only one with problems. So I say, "Go ask Chris. He knows me pretty well these days."

Which is just so, so, _so _low, because as our relationship goes, Chris is a sore spot. Chris O'Hare has been my best friend since before I can remember ever making the decision to have him be my best friend. He's a junior, and since Amanda's a senior and I'm a sophomore, he's fair-game. Chris is popular and nice-looking, I guess, but I don't like him like that. He doesn't like me that way, either, and I don't blame him. I don't think he'd even bother being friends with me if he met me anytime after grade school. If we hadn't already had such a strong friendship, he probably wouldn't have thought I was worth his time. Chris is sort of a douche-bag, but sometimes being a douche-bag is okay, like in Chris's case. It just works for him.

Anyway, Amanda is and always has been in love with Chris. And for some reason, he never gives her the time of day. Amanda confided in me with this a while back, and I know the feelings never died down, which is why I'm a bitch for bringing up the fact that I'm closer to him than she ever will be.

"What the hell is _wrong _with you?" she spits through her teeth, and she is crying, just a little bit. Her hazel eyes are sparkling.

I feel like my heart's going to explode, really. The feeling lasts about point two seconds and then it's over, done, gone. I feel just fine.

"Nothing's wrong with me," I say, and I believe it, too.

Nothing's wrong with me. _Nothing, nothing, nothing. _

***

"You look like shit."

"Thanks. You, too."

Chris tugs at my ponytail affectionately until I turn to look at him. He's smirking down at me, but his eyes are concerned, the softie. "You okay, Chetco?"

"I'm a-okay, O'Hare," I report.

"You look like you haven't slept in months."

"That's because I haven't slept in months." I roll my eyes and grab my third-period Calculus binder. Contrary to popular preference, math is my favorite subject. Math is safe. It's when you get into reading and writing and the liberal arts that I have a problem.

"Got a date with Keira Friday. I've been after her for months," Chris says excitedly, shutting my locker for me.

He's been after her for about a week now, but I don't say this, because he's happy. "Way to go, Chris! At least someone's getting laid."

The way I say this would make you think I want to get laid, but I don't, not at all. Being around Chris makes me say guyish things.

Sometimes I wonder what people think when they see Chris and I walking together. Like, oh, there's the quarterback and that…that girl – what's her name again? But Chris never seems to mind it if anyone is saying things about us, so I try not to, either.

"You going to Sparo's party Friday?" he asks.

I scowl. Chris knows I wouldn't be invited to something like that. I shrug. "Wasn't invited."

Paul Sparo throws the best parties La Push has ever seen, apparently. I hate Paul and I hate his stupid parties and more than anything I hate that I'm never invited. If I want to go, I have to crash, and that's just pathetic.

"Come with me. You can be my plus-one."

"Keira's your plus-one," I point out.

"Keira was invited."

"You can't have a plus-one and a date on the side, Chris," I explain patiently. "It's basic party etiquette."

"My mother didn't raise me right," Chris admits, feigning shame. "So what the hell, right? Won't be a party without you."

"Oh yeah. I know it."

I sit on couches at parties, and Chris gives me shit about it. It's way fun.

"So will you come?" It says something about his loyalty to me that he actually looks hopeful. I take a moment to be touched and then reply:

"And watch you suck face with Keira with her hands down your pants all night? Right. No thanks."

"You could mingle. Make friends, all that." His eyes light up, and I know what he's going to say, and I would try to kick him in the groin before he has a chance to say it but I don't have enough time because then he's opening his mouth and grinning and practically shouted, "And you could talk to Jared!"

Almost five heads turn in our direction. I look at Chris with nothing but murder in my mind.

"Fuck you, Chris."

In case anyone in the school had been unaware of my crush on Jared Khail – which seemed admittedly seemed very unlikely – they were all now informed. The way I feel about Jared isn't exactly something I'm proud of. He's a senior, but I've known him ever since elementary school, and I've liked him all that time. I'm not sure he knows my name. Something about him just draws me in, like when I'm around him I can't breathe or think and he's just so _perfect_, like how I want to be. Effortlessly happy, like it's natural to him, like he's high on life. Funny without being cheesy. Tall and dark and good-looking, but not traditionally handsome. His face was strong and chiseled and just…_just so hot. _

Maybe it wasn't just me though. Because a lot of girls seemed to feel this way about Jared Khail.

"Khail hasn't been in school for a week. Chill out." I wished I was strong enough to break Chris's jaw.

Instead of replying, I go to Calculus. Normally I look forward to this class, because Jared's in it, but not today. Jared hasn't been out a week – he's been out a week and two days. I'm pretty sure he's dead. The thought gives me a stomachache.

"Hello, Miss Chetco," the teacher, Mr. Starr, says sternly, because I'm almost late. The bell rings the second I enter the class. It's okay, though. Mr. Starr loves me.

I take a test that I know I aced and doodle in my notebook for the rest of the class period. Without really meaning to, I scribble some unconscious notes that made me flush when I look down. _J & K, Mrs. Kimberly Khail, Kimberly Anne Khail. _It looks like a middle-schooler threw up on it. A really annoying middle schooler. And it's all over my math notebook.

If Chris saw this, he'd never let me hear the end of it.

The bell rings and I sigh, because it's Wednesday and it's fourth period and that means I have to go see Ms. Renner. I don't dread it like I should. I like Ms. Renner and I love messing with her.

Amanda sees me in the hallway, and I can tell by the way she's looking at me that she's trying to corner me so she can apologize. That's the thing about Mandy. She has this really big conscience. And if something goes wrong, regardless who's fault it is, she has to say sorry. 'I'm sorry' is her catchphrase.

But I don't want her to apologize and I certainly don't want to apologize back, so I duck into the crowd and make a dash for the office. People look at me strangely, but it's worth it. 'I'm sorry' and me just don't mix.

"Hello, Kim." The office secretary, Mrs. Joanna, likes to think she knows everything about every student in the entire school. I have a theory that she goes through our files after school after night and memorizes our pictures so she can spit out random small talk like, "How's softball going?" to impress us. When really it just creeps us out.

"Hey, Jo," I say. I'm not supposed to call her that but I do anyway. I push open the door to Ms. Renner's door, which I'm not supposed to do either, but I'm on a streak.

"Kimberly, hi."

If you saw Ms. Renner on the street, you'd immediately stop in your tracks and think, _My God! That woman looks like an owl! _At least I would. She's got short, flaming red hair and the widest eyes I've ever seen. Her head is a perfect circle, and I think her neck would turn all the way around if she so desired.

"Good afternoon," I greet her with practiced politeness and drop into the seat across from her wooden desk.

"How are you?" she asks.

"I'm wonderful."

Ms. Renner hates small talk, which is a little odd for a shrink, because half the job _is _small talk. Generally people with problems don't like to jump right into discussing them. At least, that's the impression I get.

I know what she thinks. It's what my parents' think, what Chris thinks, and I've heard it a million times. She thinks that I was perfect and I couldn't handle it and I snapped and that's why I'm so screwed up now. She thinks something happened over the summer that pushed me over the edge. She thinks I'm an anal-retentive freak who tried to be perfect but couldn't manage it. So I went from sweet to bitchy because that's what you do when you crash and burn. It's a great story and I wish it was true.

I want to tell her what really happened, but I don't, because I don't tell anyone that.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter Two. **_

**So I have some explaining to do. I was originally going to post this chapter up, like, a week ago, but my COMPUTER CRASHED AND DELETED ALL THE FILES ON MY ACCOUNT! I know that sounds like the biggest excuse in the history of the world, but it's true, I swear. I lost this chapter and two for my other story, My Girl, PLUS all the stories I was writing for myself, and some school work. I was literally crying. I am so sorry. After bitching and whining to my dad for almost four days, he finally agreed to see if he could uncover the files. He couldn't. So I tried to redo this chapter as best I could, but it's not as good as the original, because I was rushing. Again, I am really sorry. **

**Tell me what you think of this chapter! Oh, and just so you know, I'm thinking about changing tenses for the rest of the story. I'm more of I 'said' than a 'say' writer, if you know what I mean. Well, enjoy =)**

"_Come on, Kim." _

_For a second, I think I'm dead. _

_When the second passes, I have to reevaluate the situation, because I know I'm not _really_ dead. At least, I'm pretty sure I'm not. _

_I'm standing in a plain room and everything's dark except for a face in the corner of the room, which is super scary, especially because I'm not sure whose face it is, all bland edges and plain features and nothing distinctive about it. _

_"Come on, Kim. Don't try."_

I have to try_, I say, but nothing comes out. And then I'm trying to yell, to scream for help, because I don't like this face at all. But I'm stuck. _

_The voice is hard to describe. I'm not sure what exactly it sounds like. I couldn't tell if it was male or female, happy or sad, but it didn't sound computerized, either. It was just noise. _

_I can't breathe. _

_I don't know if you can really die in dreams, but I'm about to. _

_Then I wake up. _

***

"I worry about you, Kim."

I stare across the counter at Chris, who's popping open his fridge and grabbing some sodas. It's Friday, and he's insisting on me going to that damn party. So I came to his house to give him crap about it.

"I guess I should be touched. But I'm not."

"Your attitude is compelling," Chris went on, tossing me a soda. I pop it open and it fizzes over onto my hands. "But I don't know where it came from. You used to be so quiet and nice."

I lick the Coke off my hands and sigh. "Don't try to analyze me, Chris. You're over-thinking it. It's not very exciting."

"But you won't tell me."

"Oh, no."

"And here I thought we had this open relationship."

He's full of shit and he knows it. The only reason he cares so much is because I don't tell him what's wrong, and it kills him inside. Chris is the nosiest guy I know.

"You know, if you ever want to talk about…" He pauses, grimaces. "About Brandon…I'm here."

"Thanks. But I don't need it."

He's the only person who's ever asked me that. Brandon Ketler sat next to me in school every year I could remember. We weren't close, but we were friends. He killed himself on the last day of school last year.

"Just putting it out there."

"You should get ready for your date," I suggest. I am not into mushy feeling conversations, especially with Chris. "Keira's not going to fuck you if you go in _that_."

Chris smirks, like he totally thinks she would, and walks into his room to change. I make myself at home in his kitchen, grabbing an apple from the basket and petting his cat, Katy, under the chin.

While he's gone, it occurs to me that maybe I should have asked Chris if _he _was okay. After all, he'd been way closer to Brandon than I had been…but I didn't ever think to ask him. What kind of friend did that make me? I swallow hard.

I hear the sound of someone entering the kitchen behind me and before I can look at Chris I blurt, "Are you okay?"

"What…is the outfit that bad?" Chris asks, frowning, as he glances down at his striped blue shirt and khaki shorts. When he looks back at me, he can tell that's not what I meant, and he clears his throat. "Oh. Yeah. I'm…I'm alright."

"I'm such an asshole. I can't believe I never asked you that."

"It's not a big deal."

"Yes, it is. I'm a horrible best friend. You should fire me."

I feel super-ashamed for some reason, and it's awesome, that feeling. It's been so long since I've really, truly _felt _something like that, and I just want to bathe in it.

"Can't." He grins. "Who would help me with my homework?"

I roll my eyes. "What time is Keira coming? I should hit the road before then."

"Oh, no, you're not. You're coming to the party with me. I don't trust you not to try to make a run for it."

"I'm not a child, Chris. If I wasn't going to go to the party, I would just tell you so."

It's a lie.

"Jared should be there," Chris says, because he knows I'm lying.

"I doubt it," I mutter. "The guy's dead or something."

We look at each other for a second, and I know he's thinking all, _Wow, nice thing to say after we just had our first conversation about mutual dead friend. _And I'm thinking, _Wow, when did I become such an unemotional dickwad? _

"I mean, he hasn't been in school for two weeks now," I continue, like I hadn't said anything wrong. "Why would he come to a party?"

"Because he's Jared Khail? I don't know. Party's are his thing." Chris shrugs. "If I was that guy, I'd make sure I go to every party there is. The girls throw themselves at him like you wouldn't believe. He's some sort of magnet."

Reason Number Seventy-Five why I really don't want to go to Paul's party.

"Fabulous. It's just sounding better and better."

"No, it'll be great! Maybe tonight will be the night he notices you." Chris is ultra-excited.

"Chris." I raise an eyebrow. "If _you _were someone like him, a normal guy, and had no connections to me, do you think you'd really notice me?"

Chris looks for a second like maybe he wants to say something heavy, but then lets it go and shrugs. "Confidence, Kim. It makes a woman beautiful."

"Stop reading your mother's magazines," I snap.

"My mom says they make me sensitive. Girls like sensitive guys."

"Is it funny, watching your manhood being stolen from you?"

"Shut up, Kim."

Silence.

"Okay, I bite. When's Keira coming?" I ask again.

"Ten minutes or so. She's bringing a friend."

I stare at him, encouraging him to go on.

He's quiet and looks down; I know who he's going to say before he does. "Lacey."

I jump up from my chair. "That's my cue. See you, Chris."

"Come on, Kim! Maybe you two should talk! I don't even know why you're fighting in the first place…"

"We're not fighting. We're just not friends anymore."

"But she was your best friend."

"So? Fuck her."

"Remind me never to stop being friends with you."

I smile cheekily at him, and he wraps an arm around my shoulders and kisses the top of my head. "You're such a little piece of shit, it's adorable," he says.

I lean into his chest and mumble, "I still don't wanna go to the party."

His arms come around my back and he squeezes tight before releasing me, shaking with laughter. "Tough shit, kid. You're coming, _and _you're talking to Lacey."

"I should warn Keira that you're probably a psychotic controlling boyfriend."

"Bet you she'd still give me some."

"Congrats! You scored yourself a non-principled slut."

Chris grins like this is some huge accomplishment and slaps me five. I don't know why, but I feel really dirty doing that, like I'm a guy or something and that's all I am to Chris, another one of the guys. I wonder if that's how it is. I want to ask him, but I don't.

"I need girlfriends," is all I say.

"That's why you had Lacey."

"Walked right into that one."

To be honest, I don't miss Lacey like I think I should. I don't miss the sleepovers, or the gossip, or whatever else it was that we used to do. When we had that one blow-out, I gave up all my ties to Lacey, everything I loved and hated about her. Now it's like I never even knew her. Or it would be, if she wasn't so freaking pissed at me.

The doorbell rings. I freeze; Chris freezes. For a second, we stare at each other – me poised to make a grand exit out the back door, him ready to answer the front one. I try to beg with my eyes, but Chris isn't budging. "Kim, you better be here when I get back. I'll call your mother if you go back home, swear to God."

The sad thing was, if Mom found out I'd run away from Chris's house because I didn't want to go to a party, she'd have me admitted into a mental facility. Chris had me. From the smug look in his eyes, he knew it, too.

He speed-walks away from me, probably freaked out by my alarmingly close proximity to his mother's steak knives. I sit in the bar-stool, clutching the seat with tight fingers, breathing deeply through my nose. I don't know why Chris's forcing me to confront Lacey bothers me so much, but it goes. I don't like the feeling of someone else controlling me; I never have.

"Katy," I whisper frantically to the cat, "if you make me bleed right now, I'll bring you a treat every time I come over here for the rest of my life."

Chris is one of those people who hates blood. Just can't stand the sight of it. He claims it's because when he was five, he watched a surgeon show, and apparently that's the kind of thing that can scar a kid for life. I know if I can get the cat to bite me, he'll send me home immediately and probably not look at me for the next day or two. But Katy, so small and innocent, just stares up at me with her big green eyes, not understanding.

I sigh, frustrated.

The soft buzz of voices in the foyer drifts into my ears and I stiffen. I hear a girl giggling, Chris's voice saying something smoothly, and then shuffling as they began to walk. I shot a glance at the door. It was too late, too damn late –

"Keira, this is Kim. I'm sure you know her."

Keira is a beautiful girl, if not a morally proud one. She doesn't have the classic tall-and-blonde look that might be popular everywhere else in the world, but her long legs, voluptuous curves, and tumbling dark hair would be appreciated anywhere she went. Especially around La Push, where most girls are short, flat, and plain. Like me. She's wearing a black sweater-dress that's too short to be conservative but too thick to be slutty. Ten seconds in her presence and I want to shoot myself in the face.

"Hi, Kim." Keira extends her hand to me. I stare at it blankly for a second, and then I realize I'm supposed to shake it. Feeling supremely stupid, I give her one of those girly clasp things and let go. She smiles warmly. "It's nice to meet you."

"You, too," I say, surprised at how business-like her greeting is. No one remotely close to my age has ever offered to shake my hand before. Maybe I'd underestimated Keira by calling her a slut.

A girl I barely recognized is hovering by Keira's left side. Lacey's changed so much that it's hard to find anything remotely familiar about her at all. Her hair is longer and lighter now, chopped into carefully disarrayed layers that work wonders for her face. She's still tiny, much smaller than me, but she's grown into her shape.

Keira glances between Lacey and I expectantly, obviously thinking one of us will say something to the other. But instead, Lacey just stares at me with her eye-lined eyes, and I stare right back. It goes on for almost a minute.

It's psychological warfare and I'm winning.

***

The Sparo's are well-off by La Push standards.

According to Chris, Paul's father is single-handedly responsible for the importing of thousands of dollars worth of Columbian marijuana every year. He supplies everyone on the Rez – because really, where else are they going to find this stuff? – including his son, the notorious pothead.

My impression of Mr. Sparo had always been that he was a big, burly man, intimidating, but with a smile that would knock the wind out of any girl over thirteen-years-old. He looks more like a middle-aged soap opera actor than a father. On the entire reservation, there are about two people better-looking than Mr. Sparo, and one of their names is Jared Khail.

The house, which was built only three years ago, looks odd compared to its neighbors. It was erected in the eighteenth-century colonial style, which is seen next to nowhere in the greater Washington area. Apparently Mrs. Sparo had come from a family of money somewhere in Massachusetts, where that kind of thing was popular. So now they had a huge, eclectic-looking house with three stories, a winding porch, and a balcony at every window.

"Nice place," Keira comments on the drive up.

"I wonder where they stash the pot," I say in my way of agreement.

Lacey glances at me like I'm crazy.

"Basement?" I ask Chris, cocking an eyebrow.

"Mhm," he replies idly.

I feel sort of weird, all jumpy and restless. I desperately want to get out of the car and get something strong to drink and then find a nice, comfy couch to sit on for the rest of the night. Actually, I think I could probably run laps around the house with the way I feel right now, but hopefully a drink will settle my nerves.

When Chris parks his father's Saab around the corner from the Sparo's place, he immediately takes Keira's hand and begins to the house. I linger behind, wondering if it would be wrong of me to just wait out the length of the party in the car. Unfortunately, while I'm debating, Lacey stays behind, too.

"Were you even invited?" she asks me, her voice skeptical. I realize how different she sounds, her voice smoother and more self-assured. She's dressed that way, too: black jeans and a white flowy tank top that she would have never worn last year. Apparently, the time away from me had done Lacey a lot of good.

I don't know why that bothers me so much.

"No," I tell her bluntly. "Were you?"

"I'm dating Paul," she blurts out, like it's an answer to my question, which I guess it is.

I'm not sure why this bothers me, either. Paul had been a mutual bully to us throughout the years of our friendship; we never discussed it openly, it was just an agreement that he was a jackass and we didn't like him. But now Lacey is with him. And it strikes me as odd, that Lacey is the type of girl that was friends with people like Keira and dated people like Paul.

"Oh…okay." I say this very smoothly.

"You don't even—you don't even _care_?" She's giving me that look, that squinty eyed _"Who are you_?" look that my mom uses on me all the time.

"Should I?"

"You would have, before."

"We don't all live in the past like you," I explain slowly.

"You know what? Go to hell, Kim."

She walks away.

My heart hurts.

I'm not a confrontational person. When it comes to fighting, real fighting with a person face-to-face, I lose my nerve and my palms go sweaty and it never turns out right. I can never seem to find the right words at the right moment and the majority of times, I end up with my foot shoved in my mouth. I can come up with a hell of a comeback with people like Chris, but throw in someone I'm not comfortable with, like Lacey, and I'm demolished.

I give myself a quick pep talk and attempt to fix my hair. It's so thin that it's staticky – no matter what I try to do, it looks wispy and limp hanging down my back.

The outside of the house is lit dimly, but as far as I can tell, everyone is inside. As far as high school parties go, Paul Sparo's are pretty sophisticated. Instead of beer served in a keg, he supplies all types of alcohol from his parent's exclusive cabinets and people use real glasses, not those red plastic ones. The dancing is inappropriate, of course, but the music is never too loud to piss off the neighbors. Drugs are used in the backyard by the forest and hardly anyone is ever puking in the bushes. For some reason, the upperclassmen feel better about themselves if they hold their puke until they get home. They'll take any punishment their parents can dish out with dignity, so long as they can man up and show everyone that they can hold their liquor down.

There's always more than a few crashers, but Paul invites too many people to be sure of who's who anyway. I know if he saw me, he'd immediately know I wasn't invited, but I doubt if he'd look long enough to tell who I was. As it is, he'd probably be pretty occupied with Lacey.

I wish Chris had waited for me before going in. I wish I hadn't come to this stupid party at all. I wish I was invited in the first place, so at least this would be a little less pathetic. I make about a thousand more wishes as my legs carry me through the yard and up to the front porch. I pause for a long time at the door until I hear footsteps behind me and immediately push it open, not wanting to be caught in my internal debate that probably would have made me look crazy to anyone but myself.

Inside, it's warmer than the chilly October air, and I roll up the sleeves of my sweatshirt. Most of the lights are turned off downstairs, but I can see light seeping under the doorways of the upstairs rooms. The house is shaped differently than any I'd ever seen. The downstairs is used specifically for bedrooms, and in the middle there is a giant, circular space that compliments the roof window at the very top of the structure. There's no real design to it, but the Sparo's make it work with several expensive-looking paintings and a baby grand piano in the center. Upstairs is the kitchen and larger rooms that seem to be at Paul's particular use for party's such as this one, because there's hardly any furniture in them and they seem to serve no real purposes except to dance and drink in.

Since I've been here before, I feel no need to head upstairs right away. I know that there's a small bar with a few selections of drinks set up in the patio, so I go out there and pour myself a glass of Jack Daniel's. Whiskey isn't the easiest drink to hold down, and I wouldn't say I'm the best drinker in the world, but tonight it seems like a great idea to get wasted out of my brains.

Probably not the best idea I've ever had.

Within ten minutes, my vision is blurring a little bit around the edges. It occurs to me that I should be worried because I'm a really bitchy drunk and I'll probably make more than a few people despise me by the end of the night. But I don't. I want people to despise me. I _should _be despised.

In my hazy state, I decide it's time to find a couch. In party's such as these, in order to maintain a healthy protocol, I find it's easier if I place myself in a comfort zone where I can sit out the storm. And what better comfort zone than a couch?

"Hey, heads up!"

A beer can goes flying just over my head. If it had been a centimeter lower, I would have been hit square in the face. My reflexes have always been slow, but add some alcohol, and it's downright pathetic.

Deciding it's probably not the greatest idea to stay in an area where aluminum cans are being hurled into the air, I made a beeline for the closest hallway. There's four doors and I have no idea what leads to where. Hesitantly, I tap my knuckles on the first one, and when there's no answer, I step inside.

It's a bathroom. A nice, clean, pretty, white-marbled bathroom with a shower and a sink and a toilet and no couch. I probably could have made due with the toilet or just lied in the tub, but I wasn't entirely sure that it was safe from the kids who had had too much to drink, and I wasn't in the mood for watching anybody puke.

When I stepped back into the hallway, disappointed and moody, I saw Chris and Keira stepping out of a doorway a few feet away from me. Keira's giggling and Chris looks bashful.

"Hey, Chris. Hey, Keira," I say happily. I don't know why I'm happy to see them but I am. They're holding hands and together make the cutest couple of fuck-buddies I've ever seen.

"Kim." Chris gives me an alert glance. I probably would have let it go, except then he quickly glances at the door and angles himself infinitesimally so that he's blocking it. I know he's hiding something.

"What's going on in there?" I tilt my chin towards the door.

"Oh my gosh, I feel so horrible. We just walked in—" Keira babbles.

But Chris silences her with a look. There's a second of unspoken communication and Keira smiles at me, chagrined.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" she asks in an effort to change the subject.

If I had been sober, I like to think I would have known what was going on and not made a fool of myself. But I wasn't sober – far from it – and I had no clue why they were acting so weird. I attempted to push past Chris to get into the room, but he held out an arm.

"_Chris, _what the hell? I want to go in there. Why can't I?" My voice sounds high-pitched and whiny.

"There are people in there," Chris says flatly.

"So? I just want to find…a couch…"

And I move Chris out of the way and open the door.

The sight that greets me immediately rises bile in my throat. If the Jack Daniel's didn't do it, what I see here certainly will. For a second, I stand still, my mouth dropping in horror. My cup of liquor crashes to the ground and skitters across the hardwood floor, drawing attention to my barging in.

The girl on the bed, some long-limbed, red-haired girl who's wearing only skimpy panties and a tank top, lifts her head up from the man she was with, irritated that I'd interrupted. I open my mouth to say something – and apology, maybe – but nothing comes out.

It's amazing how familiar I am with Jared – I could tell who he was, even from behind. His taut back muscles, bronze skin, and dark hair was so common in La Push that it would be impossible for most to distinguish even those closest to them from their backsides. But Jared's was unmistakable to me. Or maybe I'd just subconsciously been expecting this.

He's wearing only jeans, his hands clutching the red-heads waist, his head of lustrous hair lowered to hers. He looks bigger than before – broader. His hair is shorter and he looks stronger, more powerful. Even so, even despite the change and the situation and the awful, gut-wrenching feeling in my stomach, I feel comforted at seeing him. It was so ridiculous.

Chris's arm shoots out and yanks me back into the hallway almost as soon as I barged into the room. The whole encounter had lasted about two-point-five seconds, not even long enough for Jared to turn around and see me, but it was one of those things I'd probably remember for the rest of my life.

Chris snaps the door shut and looks down at me with a sympathetic expression. "Shit, Kim. I'm sorry. I didn't want you to see that."

I laugh. I take this horrible, terrible, _humiliating_ experience and I laugh. I clutch my sides and I bend over until tears are streaming down my cheeks. Because that's what I do. I tell myself that I don't care, that it doesn't matter that Jared is in there having sex with that red-haired girl, and I laugh because it's funny that I actually think I could convince myself of that. It hurts more than anything I've ever known.

"Kim…" Chris looks concerned. He reaches out for me, maybe to put an arm out for support, but Keira stops him.

"No, don't," she murmurs. "Let her laugh this off."

I'm glad she said so, because I really don't want Chris to interfere. Maybe Keira's being a nice person and has been through something similar to this. Maybe she's just feeling territorial and doesn't want Chris touching me. Either way, I'm grateful.

"Is there anywhere to sit in this whole damned house?" I ask after the hysterics subside.

A new voice enters the conversation, and even with my blurry eyes and impaired hearing, I know who it is.

"What's so funny?" Amanda asks. She looks up at Chris, whose mouth is a thin line, and then at Keira, who frowns.

"I'm not sure," Keira says. "Maybe…"

"I've got her," Amanda says roughly. It's clear she doesn't want to socialize with Chris and his new girlfriend, and I almost feel pity for her.

But I wish she wasn't here, my beautiful, perfect sister who always made all the right choices. The one who everyone adored and who never did anything wrong. She was the last person I wanted to see me like this.

Her slender but strong arm wraps around my shoulders carefully. "Kim, are you okay?"

"Yeah," I say immediately; reflex reaction.

She leans in and sniffs. "How much have you had to drink tonight? Jesus, Kim. I'm taking you home."

"No…stay. Can't go home…like this." It hurts to talk. Everything feels tired, sore, used. My muscles are cramped like I just spent the day weight-lifting.

"Well, you're damn well not staying here." Amanda pauses and considers. "Where do you want to go?"

"Bathroom, maybe…"

Amanda leads the way.

The Jack Daniel's has caught up with me, it seems. The reluctance of being here mixed with the shock and horror of seeing Jared has destroyed my digestive system, as I seem to be puking up everything I've ever eaten plus some internal organs that may or may not have some importance to me.

Amanda holds my hair back. I wonder vaguely if I would have done the same for her, and decide probably not.

When I'm done, I rinse out the taste with the mint mouth-wash strategically placed by the side of the sink. I sink to the ground and lean my head against the cool, white walls.

"I'm sorry," Amanda says, sitting down beside me and putting my head on her shoulder. She strokes my hair over and over again. "I'm so sorry, Kim."

It occurs to me later that I should have asked why she was apologizing.

***

When I get home, I chop off my hair.

It wasn't planned and I didn't even really want to do it. But my head was burning and I just wanted the hair to go away. So I grabbed the kitchen shears, tied it in a ponytail, and hacked a big chunk of it off.

There was a time in my life when that would have meant something to me, but that time is long gone. Now the hair is just hair, nothing more. I don't feel sad or regretful when it's gone.

In the morning, my mother almost has a heart-attack – a very _loud _heart attack. I stare into the swirls of my coffee while she frets over what I've done, and I put down my head when she calls our hairstylist to make an appointment to fix it.

"I don't want it fixed," I say. "It's fine the way it is."

"You look…you look—you look like a boy, Kimberly Nicole! I don't know _what _you were thinking. You don't have the face or the figure to pull off a style so short."

Translated, this means I do not have big enough boobs to prove that I am in fact a girl, and I'm ugly.

Penelope Chetco is the farthest thing from the maternal type this world has ever seen. My mother has good intentions, I'm sure, but everything she says ends up somehow scarring one of her children. Like, one time in fourth grade I came home and told her how a boy had called me fat, and she said, "Oh, Kimmie, he's just saying that because you're a little bit chubbier than everyone else."

I've been dieting ever since.

The appointment was made for noon that afternoon, which gave me three hours to not be hungover anymore. My mom might be oblivious, but surely someone at the hair place would make a comment that would send her into a frenzy. I put on a t-shirt and jeans and run a finger through my hair, marveling in how short and soft it was. The shower I'd taken made it spring into big curls. My hair had always been straight. Amanda said this was probably because my hair had been so long it was weighing down my natural curls before.

"I actually like it this way," Amanda says. "Once they fix it up, I bet you'll look amazing."

She's been nice to me ever since she drove me home last night. She even snuck me inside last night so that my parent's wouldn't see how wasted I was. Any other time and I would have expected her to call a family meeting to order to rat me out.

My mom drives me into Port Angeles in a stony silence. Her lips are pursed in the same line of disapproval as before. I self-consciously tug the ends of my hair.

"You'd better hope they can fix this," she mutters, blasting through a yellow light. "And if they can't, you're paying for extensions."

I almost laugh, but manage to hold it back.

"If you wanted it off, you could have said something. I take you to the nicest hair place within a thirty mile radius. I try to help you feel beautiful, Kim, but you're not going to unless you try, too."

The words sting.

"Whatever," I mutter, pressing my forehead to the cool glass of the window.

When we get to the hair-place, a high-end boutique in downtown Port Angeles, the hairstylist Demi puts her hand over her mouth when she sees me. She immediately whisks me into the back to wash my hair and asks why I decided to cut it all off.

"I don't know. I just wanted it gone. It was in the way," I explain.

"Well, next time I'd recommend making an appointment for this dramatic of a style."

I smile wryly. "I'll try to think ahead, next time."

Demi didn't catch my sarcasm and nodded, consoled.

It takes exactly twenty-five minutes for my mother and Demi to agree on the right cut for me. It's a choppy, chin-length style that requires a blow-dryer and flat-iron to look right. My mother said that would be fine, I had time to do my hair, and I privately think that there's no way it's ever going to look good. Even if I knew how to operate such advanced machinery, I probably wouldn't bother.

I stare in the mirror as Demi works. The salon's employees are prominently blonde, thin, and tall. I feel out of place immediately, due to my dark-hair, and curvy, petite frame. My eyes are a flat, boring brown color and my lips are too full. My skin is much darker, a russet type of tan, and I've got all the classic Quileute parts: wide cheekbones, long eyelashes, and a big smile. My mother's right to say I'm not beautiful – I never have been.

By the time Demi's done, my hair looks semi-decent and I'm almost happy with the style before my mother says, "Well, I guess that's as good as it's going to get."

Demi frowns at me in the mirror. "You look great, Kimberly. This style looks even better than your old one."

She's lying, but it's one of those white lies that's okay because she's just saying it to make me feel better.

"Thanks," I tell her.

My mother makes me pay for the visit because, in her words, _It's my fault. _I leave a generous tip and ignore my mother's requests to buy the product that Demi recommended.

"Amanda loves doing her hair," Mom says as she puts her car in reverse. "So does Lila."

I feel like I should apologize. "I'm sorry, Mom."

Mom huffs. "Kim, I don't know what's the matter with you lately. I want us to have a better relationship than this. Don't you remember all the good times?"

"No."

"You're ungrateful," she says. "Spoiled. I _never _would have spoken to my mother the way you—"

"Mom," I sigh in frustration. "I'm sorry, okay? I didn't cut off my hair just to torture you."

"But you _knew_—"

"God!" I squeal, sitting up in my seat. "No, I didn't. I didn't think about you. I cut it off because I _wanted it gone. _I did it for me. Not for anyone else. Just me."

"You're acting like a child."

"So are you," I retort.

"Don't be such a drama queen, Kimberly."


End file.
